


The Wolf's Lullaby

by 10401050106



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Choking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10401050106/pseuds/10401050106
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adopted daughter of Wilson Fisk battles her feelings for a Russian kingpin, who introduces her to a whole new brand of evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't attempted real fanfiction in over three years so I apologize if my writing isn't the most eloquent. I'm a digital artist, not a writer!  
> This fanfiction was inspired by the imaginedaredevil blog on Tumblr.  
> I used female pronouns when describing the reader but if you identify as anything other than female, by all means please swap the pronouns that fit you as you read!  
> Leave kudos if you enjoy it :^)
> 
> (nikolai I swear to god if you find this turn back now its not too late)

The wheels of a black SUV rolled to a stop at the side of the road, a wall of New York pedestrians hurrying about behind the bench she sat on. The windows of the vehicle were much too tinted on the outside, but she didn't have to see inside to know the expensive SUV belonged to her adopted father Fisk. Pulling open the passenger side door, she sat down in the seat beside her father's assistant, Wesley, and ran a hand through her hair. She looked at Fisk, who was anxiously fidgeting with the smartphone in his hand. Normally, he wouldn't allow stress to become visible through body language, but the week they were having was nothing short of hectic.

Wesley tapped a knuckle against the partition separating the driver from the backseat. The SUV rolled forward, joining the busy line of New York traffic. It wasn't odd to her that her father hired men to work and drive him. The girl was well aware of Fisk's organization and what type of criminal activity he and his hired hands engaged in, but she preferred to stay out of it. Leading a criminal lifestyle had never been desirable to her. She was cautious, though, perhaps even borderline paranoid, but she trusted her father. Fisk had always told her that the safest place she could be was by his side, and the heart necklace he'd given her was a uniform reminder of that. She lifted a hand to touch the pendant.

_Tsk tsk_ , Wesley tapped his watch, checked his phone, and looked up at him. "I have a meeting at five, but it will have to wait until after our conference with the Russians. Who knows how much of our time those two idiots will consume." His quiet voice was the only thing she heard in the otherwise silent car.

She felt a hand on her arm and looked up to meet Wesley's gaze. "I know you're not too fond of the Russians, but we have a tight schedule and we need to get the meeting out of the way before five. I'm afraid we have no time to give you a ride to your place." He said, mindful of her contempt for Vladimir and Anatoly. He could empathize; he too disapproved of the Russians' means of income. He had morals that weren't as horrifically twisted as theirs.

"You're not serious, are you?" She asked, giving him an incredulous frown. She turned her eyes to her father, who merely looked out the window.

"This meeting is crucial and will benefit my organization, so please do not complain." Fisk answered, tugging at the same cuff links he wore every day. He was always so polite to her, never raising his voice, and it was something she appreciated but she didn't care for it right now. The girl scoffed.

"Has it ever occurred to you that you're doing business with a couple of scumbags who _kidnap and sell_ girls my age? Do you know the looks Vladimir gives me when I'm out there with you, Wesley? It's like the dude's undressing me with his cold dead eyes or some shit."

"You can stay in the car if it bothers you this much." Wesley drawled, tone calm and collected as he paper-clipped a photograph to a file folder.

"I will stay with you." Her father added. She huffed indignantly, but agreed nonetheless. With these tinted windows Vladimir and Anatoly wouldn't know she would be there, so long as she stayed in the vehicle. Not that they would try anything. Messing with Fisk's family was a death wish and everybody knew it.

* * *

 

The SUV brought the three to a junkyard littered with large steel shipping containers which provided a private meeting area for Fisk's righthand and the Ranskahov brothers. Wesley was the only one to leave the vehicle.

The girl watched as he met with the Russian kingpins. From the car she heard one of the shits make a snide remark about her lack of presence and then cast a glance towards the SUV. She ducked low but gave a relieved sigh upon remembering the windows were tinted. On the seat she noticed Wesley had left that file folder with the photograph.

"So this Masked Man, he's some sort of hero?" She asked her father, picking up the photo to examine it. A low chuckle left Fisk and he glanced out the window.

"A hero in his own world. But he won't make a difference. Not in this city. Not in this reality." Fisk seemed consumed by the thought of the Masked Man for a minute before he reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a handgun. "I want you to carry this with you. For peace of mind. Things are getting loud out in the world and I want you to be safe." He passed her the gun, a look of concern crossing his features. For all of the people he hurt and would continue to hurt, she knew he was still very capable of feeling compassion, especially when it came to her.

The grip of the piece felt familiar and cool in her palm. Yes, she knew how to properly use a firearm; Wesley had given her private lessons, despite her father telling her that he wasn't the steadiest hand in his organization. She didn't mind. Wesley's presence was never overbearing. He was always courteous to her, like her father, and even in his angriest moments he could be as gentle with his words as a mother cooing to a child. Not that she would ever give him reason to be angry. It was a side of him she was yet to experience firsthand.

An angry string of Russian expletives brought her attention back to the duo of felons standing before Wesley. Vladimir was practically spitting in his face, angry over something she couldn't follow. Something about the Masked Man? Her fingers tightened around the grip of the gun in her hand. She wasn't sure how dangerous Vladimir and Anatoly could be together, but the assault rifles slung across their shoulders didn't exactly make them look like huggable marshmallows. Wesley put his hands on the livid blond brother, pushing him back with ease to allow himself some space to breathe. Her father was unfazed by the scene; he trusted that Wesley knew how to handle hostile situations appropriately.

Wesley turned to the car and motioned for the girl to join his side. She froze. _Why?_ What possible reason would he have to call for her? Dignifying those asshole Russians with her presence was the absolute last thing she wanted. Perhaps he simply needed the folder that he left behind. She almost didn't go, but she knew she couldn't prioritize her feelings over an order.

With a hesitant hand she tucked the gun into the back of her jeans, grabbed the file folder and stepped out of the car. The female timidly fidgeted with the pendant hanging from her neck as she joined his side.

"This is as much information on the Mask that I could uncover. I try to be as thorough with my work as possible." Wesley retrieved the folder from her and handed it to Vladimir, who studied the black and white photograph clipped to the front.

"Yes, is the masked дурак that let our women go." The blond brother said, scowling at the photograph. "And what of Prohaska?"

"Here's the deal. As you already know, the Masked Man has been quite an inconvenience and thus you two are caught in a brief standstill in terms of trade and distribution. This affects my employer's operation. Furthermore, I'm assuming that it won't take this man long to target my employer's enterprise next. This is why it is in our best mutual interest to devise some sort of trap for our masked friend."

"What kind of trap?" Anatoly asked.

"I've been taking note of his activity. He tends to respond quite quickly to assaults against children, elders, and women." Wesley adjusted his glasses. "Perhaps you could do with the aid of a woman."

"We have no captives right now. Masked Idiot released our entire shipment of women, like I said." Raising a brow, Vladimir folded his arms over his chest.

"I never implied it would have to be one of your women." Wesley tilted his head to motion to the girl standing beside him. Vladimir followed his gaze and his rigid expression melted into a leer stare.

"We accept this offer." He said a little too eagerly for her liking as he looked her over. She blinked, eyes flicking between them.

"Do I even have a choice in this?" She asked, scoffing.

"Well, you _are_ well-versed with firearms. Any woman these two could chance upon on the street likely wouldn't hold a candle to your abilities. You may need to use a gun against the Masked Man if he proves hard to catch." Wesley looked at the Ranskahovs and continued, "I want her returned unharmed. If you can do this, I will see to it that Prohaska is removed from the picture."


	2. Change of Plan

"You know what Wesley said. Lay a hand on me and you'll probably be murdered in your sleep." The girl repeated again, making absolute sure that the two understood. How she was convinced into doing this, she couldn't fathom. But Fisk showed little concern to the idea of lending his adopted daughter to the pair of Russian brothers, because even though they operated a human trafficking ring and had a history of assaulting women, they both knew what unholy retribution would rain down upon them should they touch her. Wesley was kind enough to demonstrate with a ballpoint pen what exactly he would do to their spines in that case. The threat put her worries to rest, for the most part.

"I have been beaten inches from death before and you think snapping blue pen in half would intimidate me?" Anatoly sneered as he lit up a cigarette, muttering on about something. Vladimir rounded the corner and came into the blind alleyway with a phone to his ear and a taser in his other hand.

"My men report Masked Man activity just few blocks down from this place. We catch his attention while he is close." He tucked the phone away and the girl's gaze shifted to the taser in his other hand.

"I'm assuming that's meant for the Masked Man?"

"No questions, девушка." Vladimir passed the taser to her before he grabbed her by the fabric of her shirt. Her scapulae made rough contact with the brick wall and a pained groan left her when her head smacked against the cement. She scowled at the Russian, ramming her boot into his shin in retaliation.

"Hey asshole, could you at least _try_ to be gent--" Her words were cut short as the man reached around her to retrieve the Glock tucked into her jeans and fired it into the air, startling a cry out of the girl. Three more shots kept her going, covering her ears with her arms until he released her. She fell to her knees and looked up with round eyes to see a black figure approaching the two.

"That should catch Masked Idiot's atten--" Before Vladimir could finish, a gloved hand grabbed the blond Russian by the head and violently wrenched him to the ground, gun spiraling across the cold pavement in the motion. Anatoly dashed forward, flicking his cigarette to the concrete below as he moved after the gun.

"Shoot the ублюдок!" Vladimir shouted to the girl, pushing himself up off the ground. A black boot met his face, sending him backwards into the brick wall. Anatoly went for the Glock and the girl stood petrified as the scene unfolded before her, watching as the masked vigilante swept Anatoly's feet out from under him and pinned his forearm against the pavement with a knee.

"Get out of here! Run!" The Mask barked at her. She pointed behind him, stammering as Vladimir appeared with a lead pipe in his hands and rage in his eyes. He wrapped the iron bar around the vigilante's neck and jerked him upward, locking his arms around his shoulders to choke him. Anatoly dragged himself forward and stretched for the handgun, rolling onto his back and aiming the piece at the man.

"Don't shoot, дурак, I'm standing right behind him!" Vladimir roared at his brother through clenched teeth, struggling to keep the man in his grasp. The girl fumbled with the taser and jammed it into the Masked Man's side, flinching as the blue electrical shock caused him to howl in pain as much as he could with the lead pipe restricting his breath. But even the 7 million voltage wasn't enough to keep him down.

In that moment it was easy to guess that he realized she wasn't on his side. With as little energy as he had left the man managed to roundhouse kick the taser out of her hand before crouching low and flipping forward with Vladimir cushioning his fall and the movement breaking him out of the chokehold. Anatoly regained his footing and fired the Glock once, twice, three times. But as the smoke cleared, there was no figure to have absorbed those bullets. Gripping her aching wrist, the girl's eyes searched the area for a possible escape route he could have utilized.

"He used the fire escape ladder, the мудак.." Anatoly panted, leaning against the cold wall. Vladimir coughed, rolled onto his side with a heaving chest, and brushed dirt and rocks from his cheek. The girl knelt down and attempted to help him up but the man stubbornly thwarted the effort with a wave of his hand.

* * *

 At the Russian's headquarters, the girl lay resting on one of the leather sofas as the two Ranskahov brothers paced anxiously around the room. Anatoly had tended to the cuts on Vladimir's face and now the upset blond was shouting over the phone at who she assumed to be Wesley. She knew Vlad well enough to know that he _hated_ being the loser in any situation. His pride would always get the best of him.

"Нет, we lost him. We need more time." He said, bringing a hand up to idly rub at his eyes. "Yes. She is fine. But like I say, more time. Few more days." A few more days? She didn't want to stay for more than a few more _minutes_. Not with these despicable felons, she wouldn't trust them if they were the last humans alive.

Vladimir held the phone out to her. "The four-eyed fuck wants to speak with you." He groused, refusing to make eye contact. The girl propped herself up on her arm and brought the cellphone to her ear.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to confirm that you're safe. They haven't hurt you, have they?" Wesley's familiar voice was a relief to hear. His smooth American articulation was a dying contrast to the aggressive accent the Ranskahovs spoke with, which almost sounded to her like chalk on a blackboard.

"Other than the fact that I've been hearing a distant ringing in my ear for the past hour because _Comrade Scarface_ here fired a gun inches from my face, yeah. I'm fine." She scowled at Vladimir. Wesley chuckled dryly over the phone.

"You won't have to stay long. Though there has been a change of plan." His tone quieted. "Mr. Fisk suspects the Russian mob is plotting against him. Probably want to cut him out of the picture so they can assume his top rank. I've been told to keep an eye out for suspicious behavior, but with you there at the Ranskahov's nest I'd concluded it would be much easier for you to gather information. Monitor them. See if you can learn anything. We'll be in touch."

It was a lot for her to process at once and she was certain Vladimir saw the confounded look written across her face so she was quick to straighten up and answer with a _Yes I'm alright_ and _Talk to you later, James_. She waited until she heard the dial tone to return the cell back to Vladimir. Damn it all to hell. This meant she would have to eavesdrop on these Russian assholes' conversations. If they ever found out about this they would have her head, or worse. She doubted even Wesley's ballpoint pen threat would be enough to stop them from taking action.

Vladimir dialed another number and began speaking in Russian, sauntering out of the room with his brother trailing behind him.

And that was that. She was left to mill over her thoughts.


	3. His Rules

The night was much too freezing for her liking. The safehouse was void of any beds save for one, but the Russians didn't even use it for its fundamental purpose. It was utilized as a makeshift table rather than a place to sleep, a home for boxes of files and crates of ammunition. She pulled herself off the sofa, wrapped her arms around her quivering frame, and stepped around a couple of brothers sleeping side by side against the wall. She wanted to say it was cute, but the two bastards were far from anything resembling cute.

It was difficult to make her way through the dimly lit room without knocking into anything, but the girl managed. Her fingers ran across the dilapidated wall until they found a light switch and flipped it up. The fluorescent lights flickered on and off, unable to provide much lighting for her. Of course. She couldn't expect _that_ much from such a rundown apartment. The Russians owned the entire property complex but cared so little to repair it. Cheap little shits.

She began moving boxes off of the bed, placing each down on the floor and making as little noise as possible. There were no bedsheets, no pillows. But it would suffice. A name on one of the folders sitting atop a box caught her eye. She looked closer, picking the file up. _W. Fisk._ Perhaps they were gathering information on him? Intel that might be used against him, maybe? She almost thumbed the document folder open, but the creaking of floorboards behind her prompted her to drop the file and pretend like she hadn't just snooped.

The girl glimpsed over her shoulder to see Vladimir standing in the doorway, gaze devoid of anything unsettling. He looked sleepy, but curious and attentive.

"Do you mind?" She asked, holding her icy hands up to her face and blowing hot air over them before moving the last box off of the bed.

"You are cold?" The Ranskahov asked, looking thoughtfully at her. She hesitated, wondering why in the hell he cared, but nevertheless nodded without sparing him another glance. She couldn't imagine he shared the feeling. Extreme temperatures meant nothing to the Russian.

"God, this place is so unkept. How can you sleep in this frigid apartment? I may as well be sleeping outside since there appears to be no temperature difference." Her words were punctuated with shivers. Vladimir shrugged off his jacket and stepped into the room, offering it to the girl. With a raise of her brow, she turned to read the sincere expression on his face and cautiously accepted it.

"Thanks... I think that's the first nice thing I've seen you do. Maybe you aren't 100% a dick." She murmured the last part as she wrapped herself up in the warm article of clothing. "Ugh, for all of the money you have I'd assume you would've invested in some cologne by now. This thing smells like cigarettes and liquor."

"Maybe this is why women never hug me." He quipped, grinning.

"I can think of a few good reasons why they don't hug you."

 

* * *

 

Hours later, the girl awoke to a hand seizing her by the arm. Her eyes shot open and she looked up at a fuming Vladimir. The fury written across his face was more than enough to jerk her out of her tired stupor and away from him.

"Oh my god do you not understand the concept of personal space? What is _wrong_ with you?" She asked, though her questions were met with nothing short of a snarl from the Russian.

"You.. dare?" Vladimir seethed through clenched teeth. "You have been eavesdropping on my brother and I?! Snooping in business that is not yours?"

Her eyes widened in shock at the accusation and she fumbled for words. "I-- No, I wasn't--"

"Do not lie to me, девушка!" A tattooed hand came to her throat, cutting off her air in one quick moment. She croaked, curling her fingers around his hand.

"Let--go of--m--!" She squirmed under Vladimir's weight as he pinned her to the bed and locked eyes with her. She cast a panicked glance to her handgun on the nightstand.

"What did you think would happen? That I would not know what your plan was?" His other hand twisted in the fabric of her shirt. "You were upset when that prissy хуесос suggested you help us catch the Masked Man, but after that conversation you had with him on the phone... You make an effort to be present when my brother and I speak of Fisk. Did you think I would not notice this?" When she stopped moving, he lowered his voice to a vicious whisper. "Do you know what I do to women like you? Liars... Deceitful women?" The question was more of a threat than anything as his gaze traced the shape of her lips.

The hand that was wrapped around her throat loosened, allowing her enough lungful of air to reply. "I didn't--lie about anything, Vladimir. I wasn't entirely honest with you two, but I never _lied_." She shifted rather uncomfortably under his broad frame. The Russian stared down at her for a long moment, as if contemplating what he would do. She took another deep breath before continuing. "I didn't want to surveil you guys, believe me. I didn't want to do _anything_ to or with you and your brother. But it was a request from Fisk, and you _know_ you can't defy him without repercussions. He might be my adopted father but in his house you live by his rules."

Her words assuaged the intensity in Vladimir's eyes up until that last part, and he was angry again.

"I do not live by his _rules_. I live by nobody's rules but my own. And in my rules, in my house, I do not allow _double-crossers_. This a thing you must learn." His words slipped out in a feigned coo as a hand traveled down her stomach and stopped at the hem of her shirt, slipping under the material. Calloused fingertips swept against the smooth skin of her abdomen, up to her breastbone, and a wolfish grin came to his lips when he felt the thud of her heartbeat against her ribcage.

Vladimir's hands weren't gentle in any sense of the word; He wanted her to know that whatever would come wouldn't be friendly, as per his nature. She couldn't expect anything less. The girl looked down and away, letting her hands loosen around the tattooed paw near her throat. Her breath hitched and her eyelids slid shut when the man moved in to bite her neck, marking her with a hickey just above her collarbone. Vladimir freed her from under his weight and moved his hips between her thighs but she made no effort to stop him, nor did she go for the Glock that was within reach now.

She didn't know if it was herself giving up because she knew she couldn't overpower him, or if it was her _wanting_ him to go further. If she was just now discovering a deep-seated lust for the blond Ranskahov that she swore was a feeling she'd never harbor for such a repulsive human being. She didn't know which was worse.

It didn't take long to come to a conclusion in the time that it took Vladimir to undress her. She didn't care anymore, she wanted him and made no secret of it. He was astounded to find that she wasn't struggling with him, as most women did. That she wasn't yelling or kicking. The sentiment that a woman actually _wanted_ him.. it was such an odd feeling that it almost put him off the idea of taking her. That perhaps she wasn't worth it if she wouldn't fight back.

"What are you doing? Take this off." The girl commanded, tugging at the fabric covering his chest. Vladimir pensively gazed down at her for a moment before complying. Off came the shirt, revealing his tattooed and toned physique. The female took a moment to just gaze at his torso, admiring the things she saw. The corners of the Russian's lips tugged upward in the slightest, resembling something of a smirk, and he took her palm in his and kissed her knuckles. It was obvious to her that he was inexperienced with such a tender gesture. The thought willed a smile to her lips. Now they were on the same page.

Arms went up to coil around Vladimir's shoulders so she could press her body and lips against his, and it was then that the Ranskahov decided that he preferred the consent she was expressing over what it could have been.

 

* * *

 

 The girl jolted awake and flung herself out of the bed, landing against the nearby wall with a _thud_ as her chest heaved and heart pounded. She blinked rapidly, gasping for air and rubbing her throat. What fresh hell was that?? It was only a dream. A dream. It didn't happen. Vladimir didn't know. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. And then her eyes opened and she looked down at herself. Fuck it all, she was soaked through her panties, but thankfully still fully clothed with the addition of the Russian's jacket.

She kept the coat on as she entered the main room, illuminated by the sunlight pouring in through the dusty window. She looked around. "Hello? Anatoly?" She poked her head into the kitchen and her gaze traveled across the countertops littered with half-empty liquor bottles. "Guys?" No reply.

So they had left her here alone. Probably didn't want to bother waking her up, but _Christ almighty_ they should have. She ran a hand through her hair and doused her face with water from the sink before heading out the door.


	4. Wolves, All of Them

It didn't take her long to find them. She traced the chatter of Russian conversation down to a garage not too far from the apartment. Inside, Taxi vehicles were being refurbished by men who looked far too overqualified for the job. Russian mobsters, she assumed. The unintelligible dialogue between them was enough to convince her of this. She traveled deeper into the garage, searching for the two brothers.

"Hey, where you going, красивый?" A man catcalled behind her, and she spun around to see a few Russians approaching.

"I'm just looking for a couple guys. A cute one and a baby-faced brat with a facial scar." She answered dryly, glancing past the stranger. More tattooed men circled around her and she heard a few whistles.

The man before her outstretched his arms, looking between his peers."You found more than a couple guys."

"Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have come here. Excuse me." Her attempt to escape the circle resulted in the Russian snatching her wrist in his hand and a snicker to undulate through the mob. A pang of anxiety swept through her when she sensed the ill-intent radiating off of the convict.

"Let _go_ of my hand." She commanded, though the waver of her voice betrayed any sense of authority she thought she had.

"And what if I don't? Hmm?" He tested her, tightening his grip.

The pain from this was enough to send a bolt of anger through her and almost as quick as she could process, her other fist hurled forward to uppercut him square in the jaw. An irate string of Russian swears escaped him as red began flowing down his chin and painting the pavement below. Using the moment to her advantage, her hand reached for the Glock hugging her waist but she was startled to find it was gone. _Fuck_ \--Vladimir hadn't given it back to her after the confrontation with the Mask! She searched the pockets of the jacket and found the taser and in one adept movement she lit the man up with it. The man collapsed to the ground, twitching and squirming and the mobsters around her took a cautious step back as the scene developed.

Another convict came forward and grabbed her. She profaned, whirling around and ducking under his fist. White knuckles curled in the front of his leather jacket and she brought her shin up to kick him between the legs as her forehead made hard contact with his, sending him stumbling backward. In addition to those shooting lessons, Wesley was kind enough to set her up with some hand-to-hand combat training sessions. She would have to thank him later for that. The fury written across her face was more than enough to convince the other witnesses that it wasn't worth the risk of getting humiliated so they dispersed in a fleeting second.

"That's right! Walk away before I perform the _coup de grâce_ on your sorry asses!" She blindly shouted in the rush of adrenaline, breath labored.

"What is the meaning of this shit?" A familiar voice asked and she spun around to see Vladimir approaching the scene with a bemused face.

"A couple of your men just got their asses handed to them by a 100-something pound woman." She answered and tucked the taser back into the jacket. Vladimir surveyed the area for a moment, looking at the assailant with the bleeding mouth and then to the other one curled up on the pavement with his hands in his crotch. An impressed look crossed his face, but his expression darkened dangerously as he approached them and started shouting.

"This is Fisk's daughter, do you know how _fucked_ I would be if she shows up with bruises on her body? Do you?!" Vladimir brazenly rammed his shin into the ribcage of one of the men on the ground, swearing at him in Russian. The man grunted in pain before dragging himself to his feet. She glanced around the garage, seeing that the Ranskahov had gained an audience of dozens. Every single person in that Taxi garage was appalled to see the man defend himself against Vladimir. Nobody ever did that. Nobody _dared_ lay a hand on the Russian kingpin. But he did. He punched him several times in the face, enough to break the blond's nose and draw a hefty amount of blood. A handful of loyal Russians stepped in to protect Vladimir, but the prideful Ranskahov ordered them off with a snarl. He was _not_ going to let anyone fight his fights for him.

Anatoly came up beside her, watching his brother brawl with the hoodlum.

"I didn't mean to cause this." She uttered, grimacing when an enraged Vladimir grabbed the man by the collar and threw him into a cab window. Shattered glass sprinkled the ground and Anatoly shrugged.

"Eh, was not your fault. People always blame the rabbit and not the wolf."

"Maybe you should put leashes on your wolves." A weak inapt laugh followed, but she quickly sobered when she realized it probably wasn't an appropriate time to be making jokes.

Vladimir came out victorious in the scuffle, leaving his subordinate a bloody mess on the concrete. After flexing his red knuckles, he turned his back to his men and walked toward his brother and her.

"You won't have any more problems with them." The blond grumbled as he passed them, displeased with the entire ordeal. She didn't know if it was because he cared about her safety or his own. She kind of hoped it was the former.

* * *

 

In the office of the Taxi garage the girl tended to Vladimir's injuries, carefully scrubbing away blood from his face. She couldn't look him in the eyes, not after that dream she had. He still didn't know, and she had absolutely no intention of telling him about it. Not that he would care, she thought. Nothing could falter that rigid guise he wore, except for a few winces of pain when she gently brushed the damp washcloth across his bloody nose.

"The good news is that you won't need stitches. The bad news is your nose is broken, so don't touch it." She said, pulling back when she finished cleaning his face. And then she leaned in again and inhaled the crisp fragrance of oak and expensive scotch. "Oh my god, are you wearing cologne?" She asked, an amused look crossing her face. Vladimir quickly answered with a _Nyet_ , and she grinned. "You are, aren't you? Glad you took my advice." She laughed and closed the First-Aid kit next to her as a healthy red tinted her cheeks. "You smell nice. I mean, all things considered." She said pointedly to the blood soaked into his royal blue button-up. The blond Russian looked down at himself with a frown before averting his gaze.

"Спасибо." Vladimir said quietly and with hesitance. She assumed it was a thank-you. "When we were young, my brother and I would always be running around, getting into trouble. After each day we come home and my матушка would clean our scraped knees and bruised elbows. You remind me of her." He pulled himself off of the office desk with a grunt, bringing a hand up to a bruised rib bone. He would have to discipline his subordinate later for his display of mutiny.

"Um, thank you. I guess.." She didn't know whether that was a proper compliment or not, but the sentiment was.. cute, although odd and out-of-place coming from such a dangerous felon.

Anatoly walked into the office with a phone to his ear, speaking in his native language. He hung up and leaned in to whisper something to his brother, unintelligible to the girl. Vladimir turned his eyes to her as she heard her name, and an uneasy feeling bloomed in her stomach when the gaze grew distant.

"We have plan to catch our masked friend tonight." He said, touching his nose with a grimace. Anatoly glanced at the female and left the room to prepare a vehicle.

"Great. But we can't use me as bait again because now he knows I'm not on his side."

"Yes." Vladimir simply replied, acknowledging that fact. "Anatoly and I have it covered. We leave tonight. You can come if you want."

"I guess. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I feel a lot safer by your guys' side than by myself." She looked over her shoulder at the men who had cornered her earlier. Vladimir followed her gaze and she added, "You two aren't as awful as I thought you would be. Still not my brand of evil, but I'm getting used to it."

"Don't get too comfortable. When the going becomes tough, the tough get to going. Whatever the hell that shitty English expression is."

"Wow, I don't think that's even applicable here. But please share with me more of your profound wisdom, Vladimir." Unamused, she rolled her eyes and followed him out of the room to help his brother prepare for whatever would come.


	5. The Child

The night sky was blanketed with clouds and rain poured hard against the windshield of the white van. She wasn't given the details on what exactly they would be doing but she decided it was better that way. Ignorance is bliss, in this case.

Anatoly sat in the passenger seat, speaking to the driver in Russian. In the back of the van, Vladimir sat across from the girl and watched the road with attentive eyes. There were a couple other men with them that she recognized from the garage. It was quiet save for the murmur of words between Sergei and Anatoly.

"туда, туда." Vladimir pointed to a red minivan just up ahead. The girl moved her head to see what he was motioning to. Sergei stepped on the gas and the inside of the van became noisy with Russian chatter.

"What's going on?" She asked, but the question went up in the air. The white vehicle accelerated quickly, passing the minivan on its left and screeching to a halt in front of it. Anatoly shoved himself out of the front seat and she watched as the brunet Ranskahov rounded the minivan's front to yank open the driver side door and haul a man out. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the other Russians join his side and begin beating down on the stranger.

"Wh..What? Vladimir??" She looked toward him but the Russian kingpin was already out of the vehicle. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest as she watched the horrifying scene unfold before her eyes. Vladimir jerked open the minivan's side door and grabbed something--or _someone_. A small child. The boy kicked and screamed and cried out to his father but Vladimir had no trouble carrying him back to the vehicle.

"Vladimir! What the hell is this?! What--"

"Заткнись!" One of the other Russians snarled at her as everyone piled back into the car with the kid. Her breathing became rapid when the vehicle lurched forward to hastily escape the scene.

"You can't do that! You just kidnapped a _kid!_ " She protested as if the Russians kidnapping people was new information. The girl moved toward the frightened boy, wanting to take him back to his father, but Vladimir caught her wrist in his grasp and threatened her with a scathing glare.

"Sit. Down." He ordered. She jerked her arm loose and covered her mouth, eyebrows tugging together as her vision blurred with tears. He was just a boy. _Just a boy_. How could these brutes do this? How could they? She weakly complied, knowing there was no way in hell she could help the situation. Not with as many Russians as there were in the van. Her heart pounded. It ached. She didn't want to be here anymore, she wanted to go home. She wanted to see Wilson. She wanted to hug Wesley and tell him never to let these despicable, heartless human beings come near her again.

The terrified boy wasn't the only one in the car sobbing on the way back to the Russians' headquarters.

* * *

 

The girl laid on her side on the bed, staring at the dilapidated wallpaper with puffy red eyes and hugged her shivering frame. The moment they returned to the safehouse she'd practically tore off the jacket Vladimir had lended her, wanting to scrub her arms clean as if part of him would've rubbed off on her. She sighed. The only thing to comfort her in the moment was Wesley's soft, mellifluous voice over the phone laying against her ear. She had told him between sobs what the Ranskahov brothers had done and that she wanted to come home. Wesley tried to reassure her that the boy would be okay, but there was no convincing her of this and even Wesley himself sounded doubtful and disturbed by the kidnapping.

The girl knew the Russians would sell the boy after using him as bait for the Masked Man. She had seen a lot of terrible things her own father Fisk had done--Deceiving people, buying out half of the NYPD and a handful of judges, illegally moving money around. But nothing he could do would _ever_ horrify her as much as what Vladimir and Anatoly had done that night. Their actions were unforgivable. She was almost half-tempted to completely turn on them and help the masked vigilante rescue the kid but she knew that if she was caught it would get her killed at best and ignite a war between Fisk and the Russian mob, consequently harming more people and putting her father in danger. She clutched her heart pendant in her palm and closed her eyes, consumed by a feeling of powerlessness.

* * *

 

The next few days passed in a haze as the kidnapping had drained what little emotional energy she had left, and the fact that she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten only worsened her spirit. From the room she could hear Vladimir and his men laughing and chatting over a game of billiards. It angered her how those contemptible bastards could steal a child from his father and display no penitence for their rotten actions. The only time she spoke to either of the brothers was when Anatoly came to offer her something to eat, but even then it was merely an impassive, empty thank-you.

When the day grew dark and she decided she'd had enough of it, the girl made her way through the quiet apartment and into Vladimir's office where he was sat at his desk. The Russian turned his eyes away from the news on the television and looked at her as she entered. She had to double-take, as the office was a lot tidier and presentable than the rest of the safehouse. The massive imposing window behind the desk emphasized the aura of authority that the room simulated.

"Что?" His question snapped her attention back to him. The female straightened her posture before speaking.

"Vladimir... Can you bring me to the kid? I just want to see him. It's the least you could do." Her request was met with a glower and she took a steady breath and added, "I won't try anything. I just need to know that he's okay. Please?" It was a lie and she knew it, but she hoped her promise wouldn't be transparent to the Russian. Vladimir studied her face for a moment before standing from the leather desk chair. Without a word, he calmly stepped around the table and took her hand in his, gentle with the movement. The girl flinched at the touch despite not having felt pain and took a wary step back. _Clearly_ he didn't understand the concept of personal space.

"No, you will not try anything." Vladimir answered in a soft and out-of-place tone. A puzzled look crossed her features when he brushed a calloused fingertip across the chain of her necklace and then traced the shape of her collarbone. He continued with, "Because you will _stay_ and keep me company."

On a dime his demeanor changed, and Vladimir lifted and drove her onto the surface of his desk. Papers, pens, a glass bottle fell to the floor with a shatter from the rough movement, eliciting a short-breathed gasp from the girl. She almost protested but the Ranskahov silenced her with an eager kiss, his carnal desire for Fisk's daughter overpowering any self-control he had. Dazed from the unforeseen advance, her hands curled in the material of his button-up shirt and she reciprocated for a fleeting moment before remembering just how _wrong_ it was and pulled her lips off of his. She had to keep the child in mind--what he and his brother had done to him.

"No--Vladimir, _no_. I can't." She pushed him back to give herself some room to breathe. The Russian adamantly leaned in again, thinking that another kiss would change her mind, but he stopped when she turned her cheek in rejection. It was astonishing to her how yielding he was in real life. It made the Vladimir in her dream seem like 100% a dick.

"Why should I bring you to the child?" He asked, eyebrows furrowing from vexation.

"Because you just kissed me. Either you were ready to commit a felony just then or deep down some part of you cares about me and how I feel." She breathed, looking him in the eyes. "Tell me it's because you care."

Vladimir was silent.

"The boy is gone." He eventually answered, pulling away to avert his gaze. The girl shook her head and scoffed.

"I don't believe that. He's your bait. You would have gotten rid of him only after catching the Masked Man. And yet here you are with no Mask in your custody." She pulled herself off of the desk and moved around him, stopping at the door. Vladimir turned to face her and she could see that he was considering her request.

"Fine. I will take you. But you and I are not done." He motioned between the two with a grumble and grabbed his jacket.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" She asked with a jovial chuckle, elated that he would take her to see the kid. She didn't care what he meant by that last part and for all she knew she wouldn't see him again after saving the boy. Or at least die trying. She needed to try.


	6. The Return

Vladimir knocked rhythmically on a rusted door below a restaurant and one of his men answered. A brief exchange of Russian words and then the kingpin brought the girl inside the hideout. She hugged her arms, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. As expected, the place was just as run-down as any place the Russians owned. Hopefully the boy hadn't been here long.

They turned a corner and she saw three doors: Two on either side of the hall and one at the end. Vladimir pointed to the door straight ahead and disappeared into a room full of Russian chatter. Alone now, she steadily paced forward and unlatched the lock on the door. With a heavy sigh, it creaked open under her hand and she stepped inside.

The sight of the tiny quivering child pressed against the corner of the room was enough to break her heart. They shouldn't have done this to such an innocent kid. The boy looked up at her and his teary face almost lit with joy. It was easy to guess that he was relieved to finally see someone who wasn't a big scary Russian. Someone who he could associate a motherly trait with.

The female lowered herself to his eye-level and crawled to sit beside him, sedated in movement so as not to discomfit him. There was silence between the two for an exhausted moment before she felt two tiny arms wrap around her in a hug.

"I want daddy..." He sniveled, pressing his face into her side. She bundled him up in a hug in an attempt to console him.

"I know. I'm sorry." She swallowed hard to conceal her wavering breath. Her jaw flexed as she mentally prepared herself for the next question. "Did they.. touch you at all? Did they hurt you?"

"No.. But they're mean to me." The child sniffled. A sigh of relief left her and she patted the boy's curly brown hair. All that mattered to the girl was that the boy hadn't yet experienced the worst fate at the hands of the damned pedophiles.

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside of the closet and the air grew tense when Vladimir stuck his head into the room. "I got call from Sergei. There's a complication at the Veles Taxi garage. We leave now." He said, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb.

The girl didn't budge.

"I think I'll stay here." She said obstinately, hugging the boy close as he cowered under the Russian's cold stare. Vladimir leveled a glare with her.

"I don't have time for this. You want to stay with little child? Be my guest." He pulled out of the room and jammed the door shut. The girl flinched when she heard the lock slide into place. Great. The bastard just locked her in.

"He was the bad guy that took me away. Who is he?" The boy quietly asked with a trembling voice. The girl sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"He's a dickhead, that's what he is."

"What's a dickhead?"

She looked down at him and a feeble chuckle left her, shaking her head. "Sorry. He's a..." She searched for the right words to properly describe a heinous individual such as himself to a child with no understanding of the human trafficking business. "He likes to hurt people. He treats people like property. I guess it makes him feel important."

"I don't like him. Is he your friend?" The child asked her, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

"No. No, he's not. I don't like him either. I thought I did at one point, I didn't think he was _that_ bad, but then he stole you from your father and it was just too much for me."

The shouts of Russian profanities in the next room caught their attention. The girl sat up and they looked at each other. Gunshots rang out and the thud of bodies hitting the wall startled the boy. She reassured him everything would be alright, but even she was hesitant in believing that herself. _Anything_ could be happening out there. A hand instinctively went to pat her waist, looking for reassurance from her Glock, but she remembered Vladimir still hadn't returned the damn gun to her. Yeah, there was no way she was getting that back now.

The kid clung to her arm as they could do nothing but listen to the scuffle outside the door. It lasted about two minutes before the hallway became silent, and then she heard heavy footsteps approaching the closet. _Oh God_. Her heart pounded hard against her ribcage as she pulled herself to her feet. If only she had her gun.

The door unlocked and opened to reveal the man in the mask. He stepped inside but stopped when he realized she was there. "You.." He said in a low voice, tone strained by exhaustion. "You're the one that tazed me. You work for the Russians." He moved forward with his fists raised and she took a step back.

"Wait! I did--I did taze you and I'm sorry for that. I don't work for the Russians. I couldn't forgive them for kidnapping a child. Please--I only want to bring this boy to safety as much as you do, believe me." The thud of her heart filled her ears as she watched the Mask consider her words. The child in question looked up at the vigilante and hugged the girl's legs, as if to convince him she was trustworthy.

After a long pause, the man spoke. "Alright." He crouched to the boy's level. "There's no reason to be scared anymore. I'm going to take you home to your parents." The boy answered with a nod and the man picked him up in his arms.

The three exited the closet and crossed the mess in the hallway. Bodies littered the floor, the top of an unhinged door rested against the wall, and plastic pieces that looked like they belonged to a microwave were scattered across the concrete. She recognized one of the comatose men to be the fuckhead who bedeviled her at the taxi garage the other day. Serves the son of a bitch right. She gave his limp body a swift kick to the side and the Masked Man glanced back at her with a look that implied he understood.

A heavy breath left the girl. Vladimir would be pissed about this. But he was no longer her concern. Tonight she would return to her father and therefore out of the Russian kingpin's reach.

"You should leave Hell's Kitchen." The Mask said to her. "The Ranskahovs will think you aided in the boy's liberation and they will find you again."

"I'll be fine." They couldn't possibly believe they could recover her again if she was back at her father's side, and she even doubted they would care enough. Fisk would be displeased that the Russians failed in capturing the Masked Man again. But she was happy about that. The man had saved the boy's life, and probably hers too. There was no telling how long it would have taken Vladimir to discover the true nature of her sojourn with the Russians--that Wesley had wanted her to spy on them.

"How are you connected with the Russians?" The Masked Man interrupted her train of thought and continued with, "You're not related to them. Did they hire you? Were you coerced into helping them?" She looked up at him as they exited the building. The question caught her like a deer in headlights. She couldn't tell him who her father was. Fisk was a rising target and she knew putting an end to his ventures would be the Masked Man's next objective. She feared what he would do if he found out she was related to Fisk. Threaten information out of her, perhaps. She was tight-knit with his enemy and therefore had a profound knowledge of Fisk's stratagem.

"They kidnapped me too. They threatened to hurt my family if I didn't help them find you."

A long pause.

"I'm going to ask you again and this time, don't lie to me. How are you connected with the Russians?" His tone lacked anger, but she still felt vaguely threatened.

"Alright, alright--My father knows the Russians. I was taken from him and forced to work for Vladimir and Anatoly." It wasn't entirely a lie. Not like she had much of a choice in the matter at the time.

"And how does your father know them?"

"I don't know, he just does. But he doesn't like them. He wants them gone, like everybody else. Like you." And that was the truth. She knew how much Fisk despised the Russian's genre of criminal enterprise. He wouldn't ever stoop to their level. Murdering people? That was fine according to his standards. He truly believed killing people in the name of rebuilding Hell's Kitchen was justified. But abducting and selling blameless children and women for a life of sexual exploitation and labor slavery? That was unsavory at best. Fisk had a daughter he cared about and couldn't imagine losing her to such a vile business.

The Mask seemed convinced by her answer. The vigilante offered to follow her home, as a precaution, but she declined. She bid farewell to the boy in his arms and the two parted ways.

* * *

 

In the apartment a floor below Fisk's penthouse, the female savored a hot shower, scrubbing at her arms in an attempt to relieve herself of the indelible odor of cigarette smoke and liquor acquired from a certain someone's jacket. Her eyes narrowed at the thought of the Russian. She still refused to accept that she kissed him, that at one point she even _lusted_ after him. He was disgusting and didn't deserve any sentimental part of her. But she couldn't shake the dream from her mind. The way Vladimir's bare skin, imperfected by scars, felt against hers, and how torturous and controlling his tattooed hands were. The stubble of his beard brushing against her abdomen as her hands twined in his hair, the butterflies she felt in her stomach when the Russian's tongue gratified her. It was all so real, and yet not so.

It could have been real.


	7. One Down, One to Go

The next morning she awoke to a light knock on the front door. Pulling herself out of bed, she threw on a robe, checked her hair in the mirror, and answered the door.

Wesley looked up from his watch and smiled. "My apologies, I thought you would have been up by now."

"No no, it's okay. I had a rough night so I slept in late."

"Well, I'm pleased that you've returned safely." He checked his watch again, "I have a meeting with the Russians today. Mr. Fisk is thoroughly displeased that they have failed once again in capturing our masked friend and is offering to help them back to their feet again, financially speaking, if they--"

"There's no way in hell I'm coming along." She interrupted.

"I understand completely. I just thought you would like to be notified that our business hasn't ended with them yet. Another thing: your father has a dinner date tonight." Wesley told her, a light grin adorning his lips. The girl blinked.

"You mean a _real_ date? With a woman?"

"Mmh, yes. Her name is Vanessa, but I assume she'll be introducing herself to you then. Your father has invited you to the dinner."

"I'll be there. I haven't eaten a proper meal since the last time I saw you two." She closed her eyes and shook her head. Wesley patted her on the arm, sympathetic in the action.

"I'll let him know."

* * *

 

The clink of champagne glasses, the hum of quiet conversation among the guests of the restaurant, and the large wall-windows offering her a pleasant view of New York below made quite an impression on the girl, but she wouldn't have expected her father to dine anywhere less fancy with a date. He was enthusiastic to introduce her to his new special someone--Vanessa, a tall and sophisticated woman dressed in white, with amber shoulder-length hair and a poised look in her eyes. She was astounded by how gorgeous the woman was and how fitting she looked by Fisk's side.

"You look stunning." Wesley complimented as he joined the girl's otherwise empty table, sitting in the seat across from her. She looked down at herself, smiling at the scarlet gown she wore. It felt appropriate to dress up for such an occasion.

"I know what you're thinking," Wesley continued. "Mr. Fisk hasn't yet told Vanessa about his organization and he would prefer to keep it that way. At least, for now." The girl nodded, twirling her fork in her Italian dinner as she watched her father and the woman from across the room. She imagined what it would be like to have a mother. Oh, how many years she had lived without one. Vanessa certainly seemed like the motherly type, going off of a first impression.

"I hope this works out for him. He deserves to be happy." She sighed contently, glad that her father found someone who could understand him. Who could probably understand him better than her.

Wesley smiled at her words and glanced over his shoulder in Fisk's direction. "Yes, he does deserve happiness."

"Hey, I'm sorry for not being able to gather much on the Russians." The girl said, fixing her posture. "After they kidnapped that child, I couldn't stand being in the same room with either of them. I just kinda shut down after that whole ordeal."

"Don't worry about it. I bugged Vladimir's office." Wesley nonchalantly explained, idly stroking the cufflinks of his suit. The fork in her hand clinked sharply against her plate when she dropped it.

"When...?" She asked, eyes wide. Had he heard the kiss shared between her and Vladimir?

"I believe it was right around the time the Masked Man rescued the boy. Perhaps sometime after that." He glanced to his subordinate Francis, as the man seemed to be having trouble at the door. The female sighed in relief. If he _had_ heard the kiss, he certainly would have made a comment about her loyalty for Fisk. She had been with the Ranskahovs strictly for business purposes, and that's what she would tell her father.

She watched as Wesley joined Francis' side, pushing someone back and telling him that Fisk was too busy to meet. The girl leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of who it was.

"I told you, he's indisposed!"

"Mr. Fisk I would like to speak with you!" The girl had to double-take as she saw Anatoly pushing past Fisk's men to get to him, but his efforts were easily thwarted by multiple bodyguards.

"What is this?" Vanessa asked, and Fisk rose from his chair. 

"You have to go. I'm sorry."

"My brother and I gratefully accept your offer!" Anatoly declared. The girl watched in trepidation as the atmosphere of the room grew heavy, Fisk's men coming to his side to protect him from the Russian. Anatoly continued speaking to Fisk but the man ignored him as he made his way to the door with Vanessa at his side. The girl stood from her table and followed after them with an anxious feeling growing in her stomach.

"Put him in a car." She heard her father whisper to Wesley, who answered with an _understood_. As she passed the Russian, she spared him a quick glance and the two made brief eye-contact. She shook her head at him and followed them out the door. He was in deep shit now, she was certain of it. Nobody would _dare_ have the audacity to interrupt such a personal meeting between Fisk and his date--not even she would do that. But apparently Anatoly did.

In the back of the SUV, she was joined by Wesley and Anatoly, much to her discomfort. She wanted to be as far from the tattooed felon as possible. The air felt dense in the space separating them and she kept her eyes on the road outside her window, hoping he wouldn't utter a word to her.

"Mr. Fisk will meet with you shortly." Wesley broke the ice, checking his phone. Anatoly nodded and she could feel him looking at her again.

"You know Vladimir is not happy with you, девушка." He remarked, raising his brows. She frowned into her hand, refusing to return his gaze. "He almost didn't believe our men when they told him that it was the Mask that rescued the kid. He thought _you_ had double-crossed him." Anatoly's voice adopted an amused tone, "He said some _very_ crude things. What he would do if he ever got his hands on y--"

"That's _enough_. Don't speak to her again." Wesley snapped, affronted by his words. She let out a steady breath and closed her eyes, perturbed by the thought of his brother's threat.

The three sat in heavy silence for another ten minutes before the SUV finally rolled to a stop below a massive illuminated overpass. Anatoly glanced out the window.

"Why are we stopping?" He asked. Wesley's cell vibrated in his pocket and he brought it up to his ear.

"Sir? Yes. Passenger side. It's worth noting that he upset your daughter." He hung up and kept his gaze forward.

"Was that him?" Anatoly looked past Wesley.

"He'd like to have a word with you."

The Russian's door was wrenched open and a livid Fisk jerked him out of the car in one swift movement. Anatoly fell to the cold pavement with a groan and shouted as the man began striking him in the face. A gasp caught in the girl's throat and she sat up straight to watch as the brunet Ranskahov was thrown around and kicked. Anatoly eventually regained his footing and landed a few blows on her father before Fisk grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket and threw him against the back of the SUV.

"You embarrassed me! You embarrassed me in front of her! And you spoke out of turn to my daughter?!" The impact of Fisk's forehead against Anatoly's shook the vehicle and made the girl's heart shudder. Her father brought the Russian around the car and tossed him to the ground a second time. Beaten and bloody, Anatoly crawled toward the girl, reaching out with a twitching hand.

"Помоги мне! Помоги..." He croaked. Petrified, she stared at him with wide eyes as Fisk shoved him between the door and the seat. Grabbing the car door with white knuckles, the man slammed it hard against Anatoly's head with a grunt. His daughter flinched as the door smacked against the Russian's head a second time, a third time. On the seventh impact, she heard a loud _crack_ and shrieked when blood and brain matter splattered against her cheek. The red chunks decorated her dress and Wesley took her by the hand to pull her out of the SUV, away from the brutality.

Heart beating rapidly, she hugged Wesley's arm as she sobbed and gasped. She didn't want to open her eyes again or accept what she had just witnessed. Never before had she seen her father murder someone with his _own two hands_. That's what he paid his men for! The assistant removed his pocket square and offered it to her, to which she quickly accepted. With trembling fingers, she wiped Anatoly's blood off of her cheeks and heaved a troubled sigh.

Fisk finally joined their side, pulling loose the top button of his silk shirt to breathe. "I'm.. Sorry you had to witness that." He apologized, placing a hand on her arm gently. She flinched and closed her eyes. "Wesley, clean this up. Take what's left of him and send it to his brother." He motioned to the mess.

"Sir, it'll start a war." Wesley pointed out.

Fisk nodded frigidly. "I'm counting on it." He turned and started toward the other vehicle. She followed slowly, trying hard to keep her eyes off of the Russian's limp body. It was difficult-- she just _had_ to see what remained of him. The girl put a hand to her mouth when she saw that his head had been completely removed by the car door, with no trace left of it. The backseat of the SUV was irreparably ruined. They would probably have to get rid of the car if not have professionals replace the seats.

She feared greatly for what Vladimir might do when he finds out what happened to his brother.


	8. The Lullaby

The blood-soaked dress was tossed over the chair in her bedroom and she was given some time to clean up after the ordeal before returning to her father and Wesley in the car. Fisk had suggested she stay home and get some rest after such a traumatic event, but she knew she wouldn't have been able to shake the image of Anatoly's headless body from her mind. She needed a distraction.

The vehicle pulled into a repair garage and parked next to a circle of Fisk's coworkers. Gao, Nobu, Leland--she knew all of their names but hadn't actually met them in person before.

"Why aren't we meeting in the usual place, and what's all this?" Leland asked as the trio stepped out of the car, motioning to the other SUV being hosed down. Red water and sticky fragments of a human skull dribbled down the foot railing and swirled into the drain. She put a hand to her stomach, nauseated by the sight.

"An opportunity." Fisk answered. "For those willing to seize it." A dry laugh left Gao and the aged woman spoke in her Mandarin tongue.

Wesley smiled briefly and turned to Fisk. "She's happy to see you."

Fisk adjusted the cuff links of his suit and cleared his throat before saying, "I apologize for my absence of late and for calling you all here on such short notice."

"Where are the Smiley Twins? Sleeping off another kidnapping?" Leland inquired sardonically. The girl shivered, turning her gaze to the men cleaning the SUV.

"The Ranskahovs are no longer a part of this organization."

"Since when?"

A cold look crossed Fisk's face and he said, "Since I removed Anatoly's head with my car door."

The girl looked around the circle. Nobody appeared happy to hear this news. Gao and Nobu made that very clear through Wesley's translations.

"It was a personal matter." Her father's eyebrows drew together and she remembered the scene back at the restaurant. She hoped Vanessa would understand. It was difficult to adequately visualize the number of Russian heads her father would collect if the woman decided never to return his calls again.

"Vladimir isn't exactly a hug-it-out kind of guy." Leland commented, adjusting his glasses.

"The masked vigilante killed his brother. At least, that's what he believes."

"It'll distract him until preparations can be made. We all knew we would need to eliminate the Russians one of these days. They were too unpredictable." Fisk's gruff voice blurred into background noise. All she could hear were her own thoughts now--fears and questions of what would come next.

* * *

 

Hot water sprinkled down from the shower head and soaked into her flushed skin as she sat on the floor of the tub, hugging her knees to her chest. Though she couldn't have considered the Russian her friend, witnessing Anatoly's death almost broke her heart and she wanted to scrub the memory clean from her mind. If only she hadn't gotten involved with the Russians in the first place, none of it would have happened. Not the dream. Not the kidnapping. Not watching as her father mercilessly beat the life out of the brunet Ranskahov brother.

The soft padding of her foot touched the cool tile floor as she stepped out of the shower and she moved over to the foggy mirror to wipe away a patch of condensation. Steam rolled off her frame as she stared at her ghostly reflection, a perfect word to describe how she felt. After hooking her necklace back around her throat, a towel curled around her dripping figure and she ran fingers through her damp hair before exiting the heavy air of the bathroom.

Rounding the hallway corner into the main room, she froze in place when her gaze landed on a man sitting on her sofa, twirling a handgun against his thigh. He looked up to make eye-contact with her, that familiar facial scar and leer stare sending a jolt of anxiety through her spine. _Vladimir_. The Russian grinned when she tightened her arms around the towel concealing her body.

"I was beginning to think you had someone in there with you." He started, removing his jacket and rolling back the sleeves of his royal blue button-up shirt. "Perhaps our masked friend. After all, it seems you two get along _very_ well. Rescuing abducted children together, beating my men unconscious. _Killing_ my family."

"Get the hell out of my apartment." The girl said, tone nothing short of a menacing growl. She didn't think she would see him again after the boy. How he found her apartment was an absolute shit-mystery to her. An airy chuckle left the Russian at the threat, and her jaw clenched as she continued, "I had nothing to do with the death of Anatoly."

"I know this. You aren't a killer." Vladimir smoothly stood from the sofa and tucked her Glock into the back of his jeans. He brought his fingertips together as he paced towards her. The girl pulled herself back a step, shivering as cold water dripped from her hair and trickled down her bare shoulders.

"Vladimir, don't you dare use me as an outlet for your frustration." Her back pressed against the wall with the Russian merely an arm's length away now. Her mind raced with questions of whether or not he knew it was her father who murdered Anatoly and not the Masked Man.

"You were right about me. The first time I kissed you." The blond Ranskahov tenderly stroked her arm, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his knuckles. She breathed heavily in the suffocating space between them, shying away from his touch. She kept her gaze on his torso, unable to look him in the eyes. His docile demeanor betrayed the very essence of his personality and kept her heedful of a possible ulterior motive he might have. It wouldn't be the first time he faked solicitude to get close to her.

He continued, "Some part of me does care. I've tried to ignore it, the emotion I felt. I didn't want to entertain the idea that I want you. But I cannot help myself, красивый." Vladimir cupped her jaw in his hands and brought his lips to hers, fervent in the movement.

Like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf, she didn't dare move away. Not because she was scared of him maltreating her, but because she was ambivalent of her own feelings. Fearful of what she might do. Admittedly, she had developed an infatuation with the Ranskahov before but she wouldn't doubt that it could happen again if she became careless and receptive. He was dangerous, she knew that. She had experienced that firsthand.

An apprehensive sigh passed from her lips to his, and Vladimir whispered something in Russian as he brushed a tattooed thumb against her cheek. He pulled her close, swaying from side to side as he hummed what sounded like a Russian lullaby. The warmth of the hug made her more pliable in his arms; she inhaled his musk--that same oaky cologne from before--and closed her eyes to lean her head against his bicep. _God_ , he smelled so lovely. There was a surprising absence of acrimony in Vladimir's sonorous voice, a part of him she hadn't heard before. It was spellbinding how humane the Russian seemed in the moment, she had almost forgotten that he was a despicable human-rights violating felon.

The girl wrapped her arms around his torso and carefully palmed the grip of the gun tucked into the waist of his jeans. In one fluid movement, she tugged the Glock out and calmly pressed it against his abdomen. A precaution. But she was doubtful of her willpower to shoot him and perhaps even hoped he would give her a reason not to. Vladimir froze and his eyes dropped to the weapon.

"ебать..." He frowned, lifting his gaze to meet hers. She knew he could disarm her in an instant if he wanted; the gun wasn't cocked nor was the safety switch off. But she wasn't scared of that.

"I'm afraid of loving someone like you. I want to, but it just feels so _wrong_. Tell me why it feels this way. Tell me why I won't be making a horrible decision if I give in to you." She murmured, tightening her grip to stop the gun from shaking in her hand. The look in the Russian's blue irises were unreadable to her, unsurprisingly.

"I am not asking you to love me." He assured her, looking at her collarbone to touch the heart pendant hanging from her necklace. "I just want you to kiss me." Tilting his head, his lips met hers again and this time she reciprocated. The female decided she was done running from her feelings, that perhaps with her love she might have a chance at changing Vladimir from within. That she could tame the wolf. She knew it was wrong, after everything he had done. But she was stubborn, a trait the Russian shared with her.

Standing on her toes, her arms went up to snake around the Ranskahov's shoulders, whose hands were busy caressing the curves of her figure. The Glock left her palm and tumbled to the carpet below their feet. Stirred on by the heat passing between their lips, Vladimir's gentle touch grew heavy and ravenous, but before the kiss could progress any further the girl pulled away for a breath.

"Vladimir," She started, looking up at him through her lashes. "The first night I stayed with you and your brother.. I had a dream about you." She took his hand and placed it over her collarbone, letting the flutter of her heartbeat tell him the rest. Vladimir's gaze softened and a genuine smile crossed his face, his eyes squinting in the gesture. It was the first time she had ever seen the Russian smile and _holy shit_ was it gorgeous.

"Do you know I had one too? The same night. Is why I offered you my jacket when you were cold, and why I took your advice. I liked you. But I thought nothing could happen between us, because of Fisk..." He trailed off, expression hardening at the mention of her father. But then he looked pointedly at her, "And the day you came into my office.. I could not keep my hands off of you any longer. It was difficult to look at you and not imagine the pretty sounds you would make with my dick--"

"Vladimir--please," Her cheeks reddened and she shyly covered her eyes. "You don't have to describe your fantasy in vivid detail to me when we could make it a reality." Her words seemed to stir something in the Russian; the buoyant look on his face encouraged the girl to proceed, but the gaze felt heavy and stripped her of her confidence before she could even begin removing the towel hugging her body. How many beautiful women had he slept with? Was he a man who cared more for appearance than personality? Would he think she's beautiful? The hesitation seemed to be too much for Vladimir's liking because he impatiently helped her pull the material off, and her insecurity was put to rest when the blond didn't stop to pass a judging glance over her figure. Instead, their bodies made contact again and her hands tugged at his shirt as his roamed the curvature of her back.

The couple made it onto the bed in her room before Vladimir's shirt came off to reveal that same tattooed chest she saw in her dream. Only this time, it was real. She lifted a hand to touch his skin, tracing a prominent scar across his breast and then brushing her fingertips against the cross inked over his sternum. Vladimir studied her face and the expressions she made as she examined each tattoo. Akin to hieroglyphics, the prison ink was both imposing and impressive, but impossible for her to decipher. Her eyes caught glimpse of a half-naked woman in a suggestive pose inked into his bicep and an amused chuckle left her. "Didn't allow any Playboy mags in prison, did they?" She commented and Vladimir gave her a shameless smirk.

He pulled back and unfastened the buckle of his belt, sliding the leather out of the denim loops of his jeans to relieve the strain on his erection. A yearning shiver ran down her spine when she heard the zip of his jeans and off came the rest of his clothing before their bodies and lips met again in an entanglement of heat and passion. A strong, rapacious hand hooked under her knee and pulled her leg up over his hip and she watched Vladimir wet his index and middle fingers with his tongue. The female closed her eyes and tucked her face into the crook of his neck, biting back a groan when she felt two wide fingers prod her entrance and slide in to begin stretching her. A murmur of Russian words left him and he placed a kiss on her shoulder. It was almost startling how good-natured and patient the convict was with her; she expected him to be the torturous, rough type in bed but Vladimir showed a great deal of restraint with her in his grasp. Perhaps he saw her as some fragile thing that he didn't dare roughhouse with? Or maybe he refused to leave bruises and bite marks in the belief that Fisk would see them later and question her? It was difficult to understand the Russian, but she decided she didn't want to be treated like her skin was made of paper mâché.

The female pulled Vladimir's hand away and she hastily pushed his back to the bed, much to his surprise. She guessed he wasn't used to a woman taking initiative. In one movement, the female rolled atop him and straddled his hips.

"Bold, even for you." The Ranskahov commented, an understanding grin crossing his features. Now they were on the same page. She lifted herself up and Vladimir guided her hips down onto his hard erection. The sensation of his cock fully filling her elicited a sighed moan from the female; her palms laid flat on the blond's chest and she began rolling her hips forward, reveling in the immediate pleasure. A deep groan resonated from the man below her and his eyelids slid shut, hands resting on her hips as she rocked rhythmically atop him. She was not skilled in any sense of the word, but Vladimir's heavy heartbeat below her palms told her how much he was enjoying it.

The Russian allowed her another minute of control before his greedy side began to shine through. Tattooed hands grasped her by the waist and he turned the girl over on her back, pinning her to the mattress with his weight just as he had done in her dream. Probably in his dream too--she couldn't imagine he was anything but uncouth in his own egocentric imagination.

The thought was swept from her mind when Vladimir bruisingly kissed her and reached down to push his cock back inside her wet entrance. An experienced hand caressed the most sensitive bit of her body and willed a prolonged moan out of the girl. Her pulse fluttered under his touch and she gasped and sighed at the sensations she felt, arching her back to press her breasts against his tattooed torso. Vladimir's hips moved against her thighs with each thrust and his other hand moved to constrict her throat in a licentious display of dominance, warranting an irritated noise from her. She would have been absolutely fine with it if oxygen wasn't a necessity to her vitality.

Wanting to breathe properly, her fingers went up to pry his hand away and in the motion Vladimir's fingers caught in her necklace and he accidentally ripped the chain clear off. He froze, pulling away to look at the broken links in his palm.

"You bastard, that was a very special gift from my father!" She gasped, swatting his arm in revenge.

"Извините... I'll buy you a new one." An apologetic sigh left him and the Russian leaned over to set the necklace on her nightstand.

"The sentiment won't be the same if you do that." Her complaint was interrupted as the two heard a cellphone begin to ring somewhere in the room; Vladimir stopped what he was doing and glanced over the edge of the bed at his jeans, but the girl pulled him back down for another kiss, convincing him to let it go to voicemail. The ringtone continued for a few seconds but the Russian paid no attention to it as he leaned down to pepper his lips across the skin of her throat, his facial hair tickling her skin in the movement. She chuckled shyly, turning her head to give him more access.

Vladimir left a path of kisses down her collarbone, chest, abdomen, and finally between her thighs, where his tongue slid out to torment her in slow circles. The sensation elicited a whimpered gasp from the girl and her fingers went to comb through his blond hair. To her relief, the Russian pulled himself back up and reinserted his cock into her, eager to see the female squirm under him. And he accomplished that with every assertive thrust, knocking the headboard of her bed against the wall each time. She wouldn't be able to look her neighbors in the eye after this one.

The intense fire throbbing in her thighs and stomach sent a shiver through her body and her forearms went up to coil around Vladimir's broad shoulders. The blond Ranskahov rested his head against hers and her name left his throat in a low moan. Warm fluid filled her up and he pulled his cock out to let the last of it leak onto her stomach, a healthy white decorating flushed skin. A hand traveled between her thighs and he helped her along the way, massaging her with his thumb as two tattooed fingers pumped in and out of her.

"Oh fuck, oh--my--G..." Nails turned inward, biting at the flesh of the Russian's back as her spine arched again in response to the wonderful gratification. She gasped heavily, curling her toes when Vladimir brought her to orgasm with skilled strokes. Melting into the sheets below him, she tilted her head back and closed her legs around his hand, riding out the orgasm with rapid pants and groans. Vladimir cupped his other hand around her mouth, catching a pretty moan in his palm. Her heart thudded against her chest and she put a hand to her damp forehead when he pulled his away, letting her eyelids slide shut.

She felt weight shift into the space beside her as he laid down, their rapt breaths dissonant to the other. Vladimir planted a kiss on her temple and sighed through his nose, and the girl rolled onto her side to face him. A thumb went up to gently sweep against the scar on his cheek.

"Sing to me again." She whispered. The Ranskahov cracked open his eyes to look at her and he waited to regain his breath before that same Russian lullaby filled the air around them, soothing the thump of her heartbeat. She curled up in the sheets beside him, closing her eyes and listening to his smoky accented voice. At the end of the song, Vladimir moved off of the bed and dressed himself again. She watched him retrieve his cell from his jeans.

"Who was it?" The girl asked, propping her head up with her hand.

"Eh, Sergei. I have to return this shithead's call." The blond headed to the bedroom door but stopped in his tracks when something in the room caught his eye. She looked over, seeing what he was staring at. Her heart jumped into her throat when she realized she had left the red dress on the chair. The female slowly sat up in the bed, watching Vladimir approach the article of clothing and brush a hand across the blood-dried fabric.

"What..." He plucked something out of the embroidered design. A skull fragment. The Ranskahov peered down at it and she clutched the sheet to her chest, breath picking up again.

"I didn't do that." The girl said quietly, looking at the fragment belonging to Anatoly. The Russian flipped the thing over in his palm.

"Fisk..."

"I'm sorry, Vladimir.." She breathed, watching him cautiously.

"Do you know what 'sorry' fixes?" He slowly turned to level a bitter glare with the female, clenching the white splinter in his fist. "It fixes _shit_. 'Sorry' will not return my brother to me." His voice was a dangerously low growl. Any compassionate feelings he'd previously felt were now entirely replaced with fury as the irascible kingpin immediately dialed a number on his cell and brought it to his ear. Angry Russian words left him and he paced around the room without sparing the girl another glance.

She stayed in the bed, paralyzed with fear as she watched him.

" _VSE !_ " He shouted with vehement and ended the call. The man dragged a hand down his face and violently wrenched open the bedroom door, making the girl flinch in the loud action.

"Vladimir!" She called after him, but decided it would be smart to let him go. He was a train in the process of derailing and she certainly didn't want to get caught in his path. The jolt of the front door slamming vibrated through the walls of the apartment and she sat in the all-too familiar dread of what Vladimir might do next.


	9. Bruises

Wasting no time, her clothes came on and she dialed Wesley's number. The assistant picked up and she said, "Vladimir knows. He's going to kill my father, Wesley."

A long pause followed as her words registered to the righthand.

"No he's not. We have the situation under control. Vladimir won't get within a hundred feet of Fisk." The lack of concern in his voice lessened her worry, but not by a substantial amount. Wesley was at Fisk's beck and call, and she knew he was good at his job. Protecting Fisk had always been his number one priority and everybody knew he would gladly die in his place. In any other situation she would fight along side him too, but against the Russians? Vladimir wouldn't stop until he got to Fisk, and anyone who dared stand in his way wouldn't live to see another day.

"Where are you?" He asked, and she looked around the living room of her apartment. Her gaze landed on the jacket that the Russian had unknowingly left behind in his angry exit.

"I'm at my apartment." She answered, bending to pick the article of clothing off the sofa.

"You won't be safe there by yourself. I'm going to come pick you up."

"Wait, what about my father? Where is he?"

"He's... preoccupied at the moment. On another date with Vanessa. He'll be fine. I'll talk to you shortly." She heard the dial tone after that.

Sighing, the girl rolled the material of the black jacket between her thumb. Even after all of that intimate time spent with the blond Ranskahov, she was still uncertain if he truly felt something for her. He was so quick to abandon her, even with the knowledge that Anatoly's death wasn't her fault. It made her wonder if Vladimir had only acted so kind just to get under the sheets with her? What a ridiculous thought. If he wanted to fuck her that badly, he wouldn't have gone to the lengths he did. In truth, he would have just taken what he wanted. The thought was both relieving and unnerving. Some part of Vladimir _did_ care, and she stubbornly held onto that.

* * *

 

In the SUV, the girl wrapped herself up in his jacket, savoring the lingering fragrance of his expensive cologne. It soothed her uneasy nerves, for the time being. Fortunately for her, in the dimness of the vehicle the Ranskahov's jacket was unrecognizable to anyone else.

"What happened there?" Wesley asked, motioning to her neck with his eyes. A hand went up to touch her throat and she winced. Oh fuck. That Russian bastard had left bruises.

She nervously cleared her throat and popped the collar of the jacket to conceal the marks. "I slipped in the shower. Landed on my neck. And yes, it hurt like shit." Her voice came out surprisingly smooth and she thought she had him convinced. Wesley raised a brow, but returned his eyes to the smartphone in his hands.

"I have a gift for you." He said calmly, tapping his finger against the illuminated screen. She tilted her head akin to a dog. Wesley lifted his gaze to look out the tinted window of the SUV and her eyes followed.

A minute later, thick clouds of fire erupted from several buildings in the distance, all in succession, and the deafening thunder of it rattled the buildings around them. Glass, debris, and ash decorated the sky in the explosion and plummeted back down to earth. The girl gasped and covered her mouth, struck with horror as the glow of flames lit up the night, accompanied by the cacophony of hundreds of car alarms.

"What the _shit_ was that?!" She cried, unable to turn her eyes away from the sinister mass of black smoke billowing from the destruction. Wesley adjusted his glasses, nonchalant in the action, and tucked his phone into his suit jacket. It was disturbing how apathetic he seemed given the circumstances.

"Those were our Russian comrades. Vladimir and his yes-men shouldn't be a problem anymore."

Shocked was more than an understatement. She was at a loss for words. Her jaw hung open and her heart rate skyrocketed at the thought of Vladimir biting it in the explosion. The back of her palm angrily wiped away the wetness forming at her eyes. It was his own fault. His own fault. Vladimir's selfish, erratic nature was bound to get him killed one day--it was inevitable. She regrettably knew that after all of the vile crimes he'd committed, the lives he'd ruined, he deserved it. She knew that. But the girl also knew she loved the damn Russian and couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

"You look more displeased than anything." Wesley remarked. She straightened up and shook her head, forcing the frown off of her face.

"I'm fine. I'm just... _glad_... that they're gone." It almost physically hurt to say that. But she needed to keep up the appearance that she still hated the Ranskahovs. Wesley couldn't know of her relationship with the Russian kingpin--no one could. The simple fact that she had given herself to Vladimir in more than one way was a betrayal of Fisk, and she didn't want to imagine how her father would react if he ever found out. Her damp eyes peered out the window at the flames consuming the Russian headquarters.


	10. The Radio

After seeing to it that Vanessa was escorted home safely, Fisk had joined his daughter and Wesley in the SUV. The vehicle, accompanied by two others on each end, parked just a block from the scene developing outside an abandoned warehouse. The night sky was filled with the pandemonium of wailing police sirens and the whipping hum of news helicopters that circled the property. Butterflies filled her stomach, but whether it was from hope or anxiety she didn't know. Perhaps all of this commotion meant he was still out there somewhere.

"I'll let him know." Wesley pulled his phone away from his ear and readjusted his glasses, his next sentence affirming the possibility. "Vladimir is in the wind."

"How?" Fisk seemed very displeased at this, but the girl felt differently. He was alive. That's all that mattered to her right now.

"Our friend in the black mask. He was beating on the Russian but stopped officer Corbin and his boys from finishing him off. Based on what we know, he was likely trying to get him to talk. About you."

An exhausted sigh left Fisk. Wesley continued, "Blake was clumsy in letting the Mask get his phone--I had just texted him the addresses of the sweep."

"We'll deal with Blake later. We need to contain this."

"Vladimir and the Mask won't make it out of the area. The sweep will pick them up." Wesley's assurance made her uneasy. If she knew anything about her father's assistant, it was that when he was assigned a job he would get it done by any means necessary. Wesley pulled a vibrating smartphone out of his suit and lifted it to his ear, listening to Blake on the other end.

"I'll let him know. Wait for instruction." He ordered and then looked up at Fisk before continuing, "The man in the mask has turned up. Assaulted a cop in an abandoned building on 12th."

"One of ours?"

"No, some kid fresh out of the academy."

"And what about Vladimir?"

"Holed up with the mask. Blake and Hoffman have assumed HNT on scene. Secured the perimeter, waiting for the go-ahead to clear the building."

"Give it. I want this put behind us." Her father looked out the window at the flicker of red and blue against the buildings around them.

The rest of the exchange between Fisk and his assistant had become a blur of unintelligible words to the female as she could think of nothing but the Russian. She knew he wouldn't survive the night, not with as many of Fisk's officers surrounding the warehouse as there were. She wished she could do something, but her word was utterly powerless in a situation like this. Nothing she could do or say would convince her father to let the Ranskahov walk free. He was a significant liability to his organization; she knew Vladimir would immediately try to tear down everything Fisk had worked so hard for as way of avenging his brother.

In her contemplation she hadn't realized Wesley had left and returned to the SUV until the crinkle of an orange paper packet in his hands caught her attention. A radio passed from him to her father.

"Emergency service unit is en route. Blake and Hoffman are clearing a channel." Wesley's composed voice resonated in the cool air of the vehicle and she watched as Fisk brought the walkie up to his face. A moment of thought passed before he pressed the talk button.

"I would like to speak to the man in the mask."

Long silence.

And then a voice on the other end, delicate and deliberate.

"Who is this?"

"You know who it is." Fisk turned his eyes to the muted news on the small screen in the vehicle.

"You've been asking about me. It's time we spoke."

"Say your name."

"You first."

Silence, and Fisk said, "That's what I thought."

The girl listened to the dialogue between her father and his rival. She had nothing against the man in the mask, even after he threatened to make Fisk pay for what he's done. In truth, she admired him for several things: Rescuing the boy from the Russians, making endless efforts to put an end to the human-trafficking ring they operated. She reasoned it wasn't morally wrong to support his side. It was hard to understand Fisk's viewpoint and even harder to support his idea of reshaping Hell's Kitchen if it meant murdering thousands of people.

"Life is not a fairytale. Not everyone deserves a happy ending." Fisk said into the radio. "The Russian... is he alive?"

"I fucked your daughter, you fat shit!" Vladimir bitterly shouted over the radio. She froze in place.

Both Wesley and Fisk's eyes were drawn to her.

A long and unbearable pause followed before the Mask said, "Does that answer your question?"

The girl closed her eyes and covered her face, cowering under her father's scrutiny. Fisk clenched his jaw, fingers tightening on the walkie, and spoke again. "It's a one-time offer. Kill the Russian and we call the night a push." It was evident that he was not pleased with the newfound knowledge. She dreadfully knew there would be an interrogation waiting for her later.

"You know what he's done? To women... to children. To the people of this city that you claim so much to care about? Do you know he enjoyed it?"

Her hands curled into fists when she vividly remembered the night she witnessed the kidnapping of the child. She hated that they had to do that. That _Vladimir_ had to do that. And she was disgusted with herself that she'd fallen in love with such a repulsive criminal as himself. How the fuck did that happen, and why was it impossible for her to let the feelings go?

"I respect your conviction, even if it runs counter with my own."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself you've won. It'll only make what I'm going to do to you more satisfying." The anger in the Masked Man's voice was surprisingly tame, given the situation. A passive laugh left Fisk at the threat. She couldn't imagine he felt intimidated in the slightest, not with the assurance that all of his police surrounding the warehouse gave him.

"I'm afraid your part ends tonight." He said before giving a nod to his righthand. Wesley spoke into his phone and seconds later the three heard multiple gunshots ring out in the distance. She quickly turned in her seat toward the rising tumult a few blocks down.

"What--?" Her eyebrows drew together in anxious confusion as the buzz of helicopters and cries of civilians grew anarchic. If only the SUV was parked at the actual scene could she get an understanding of what the hell was happening. But she would have to rely on the news broadcasting over the muted TV in the car.

"What did you do?" The Masked Man sounded just as concerned as the girl felt.

"What you forced me to do." Fisk spared his daughter an apologetic glance. She knew that he wasn't fond of scaring her like that.

With her attention absorbed in the report on the television screen, she was horrified to learn that several policemen, including detective Blake, were gunned down.

"Goodbye. I'm afraid we won't speak again." Her father turned to Wesley and said, "Roll the tapes." On the television screen she saw new video footage of the Masked Man escaping police custody and beating the cops unconscious. Fisk was framing him to look like a _terrorist_ , and it was working. She wanted to say something, but what could she say? Multiple people had just died because of her father and now the vigilante whom she admired would be condemned to a lifetime of unmerited blame.

"I'm sorry he touched you." Her father said and she looked over to meet his heartbroken gaze. "I should have known letting those Russians near you would be a mistake. Vladimir and his brother hold very little respect for women, I don't know how I could have thought they would treat you differently." It was then that she realized her father assumed Vladimir had assaulted her. It was better that he believed that and not the actual truth, that she had willingly given herself to the Russian kingpin because in doing so she had betrayed him.

"It was only hours ago, right before the bombing. I don't know how that asshole found me." She sighed, rubbing her bruised neck in emphasis to corroborate the story. But though she looked perturbed on the outside, on the inside she fondly recollected the personal moment between herself and the Russian.

Wesley's uncomfortable expression hadn't gone unnoticed. Perhaps he was upset at himself for not being there to protect Fisk's daughter.

"He will not hurt you again, I promise you that." Fisk looked at her for a long moment and then said, "If you've removed the pendant because I failed to follow through with my initial vow of protection, I understand." At his words, she instinctively touched her neck. Alas, no necklace. An irritated huff left her when she remembered Vladimir had accidentally broken it.

"It's not that. I guess he knew it was from you because the bastard tore it off of me." She lied, shrugging as she watched Fisk pass the radio back to Wesley. The assistant moved to leave the vehicle with it in his hand, but the girl grabbed him by the arm.

"I can take that for you. I need some fresh air anyway. You should stay here with him." Wesley looked between the radio and her, contemplating for a moment, and agreed. She plucked the device out of his hand and stepped into the chilly night air.

A nervous shiver ran down her spine when she thought of Vladimir. Would he want to speak to her again after having discovered his brother's murderer to be none only than her own father? She was without a clue whether or not he was angry with her specifically, but it was worth a shot. The female brought the radio up with a tense hand and hesitated before pressing the talk button.

"Vladimir?" She tried, praying she would get _some_ kind of response but at the same time not letting herself become too hopeful.

A minute of silence passed.

Her voice faltered as she spoke again, "My father can't hear. Please talk to me."

Another minute passed and a dispirited sigh left the girl as her head dropped into her hands. The crackle of static hissed over the radio and she heard a voice, guttural and strained with agony.

"What..." Vladimir groaned. Her head came up and a joyous look crossed her features fleetingly before being replaced with worry.

"Are you okay? You sound like shit." She heard a raspy cough on the other end.

"I am--fine." He answered, but his labored breath told her otherwise. The girl exhaled deeply and leaned against the car door, silent. What could she say to him? That she was happy to hear his voice? That she was sorry he ended up where he was, trapped in a warehouse with his nemesis and surrounded by her father's cops? She knew where a 'sorry' would get her with the Russian; back at her apartment he had made it quite clear how apathetic he felt towards apologies.

She swallowed hard and said, "Vladimir, the kissing and the hugging--was anything between us ever real? Or was I just another one of your fuck-puppets?" She hadn't meant that to sound humorous, but a weak laugh left the blond Ranskahov regardless.

"You tell me." He answered, and she heard shuffling and a string of words leave him, " _I told you, this is not how I die._ " She assumed he was speaking to the Mask.

Two struggling voices were followed by the hiss of heavy iron grazing the ground and deep panting. Perhaps they had found a way out? Over the static of the walkie she heard the faint radio chatter of a SWAT unit approaching, and then his voice again. He spoke to the masked vigilante of Fisk, that her father would be implacable as long as he was alive. That the Masked Man would ultimately have to kill him to save the city. She knew this too; Wilson would stop at nothing to see a new Hell's Kitchen. Not if he was locked up in the clink. Not if everyone he loved was killed.

The radio feedback crackled and it was the only thing the girl heard for a few long minutes. Her pulse ached with each second, quailing at the thought of the SWAT unit finding them. No no no it couldn't be. Not now, please. The female gripped the radio in her hand and closed her eyes.

And then she heard her name, murmured under a pained breath. "I go now, красивый." Vladimir drawled as he cocked the bolt handle of the assault rifle in his hands. The snapping noise sent a shudder right through her spine.

"Vladimir--what's going on? Is the Masked Man there with you still?" Her worried questions went unanswered as the Ranskahov began crooning into the radio the same Russian lullaby he had sang to her twice before. Only this time, the doting color that usually accompanied the ballad was replaced with the doleful undertone of a grieving man. A man who had come so far only to lose his brother and everything he had worked so hard for to Fisk.

Thunderous gunshots fired on the other end of the walkie, from his gun and from Fisk's SWAT unit that had encountered him. The girl put a hand to her mouth as she listened to the Russian emptying his rifle's entire magazine. Only seconds later did it fall eerily silent, and she failed to put together coherent words. She feared that if she asked, Vladimir wouldn't be there to respond. But she did anyway.

"Vladimir?" Her voice was hardly even a whisper.

The car door on the other side of the SUV opened, startling the girl. The radio fell out of her hands and cracked against the pavement. The batteries popped out in the impact and she cursed under her breath, kneeling down to search for the pieces that had skidded under the vehicle. The female quickly rose to her feet again, jamming the empty walkie into the pocket of Vladimir's jacket to hide it from Wesley as he joined her side.

"Your father has requested that I drive you home. He wants you to rest. Francis will stop by in a few days' time to install a couple extra locks on your apartment door, as precaution."

"Good. I'm exhausted." She put a hand to her forehead, honest in the claim.

"And Detective Blake will also need the radio back." The man said pointedly, motioning to her jacket with his eyes.

"You mean the man you guys put in the hospital?" A displeased look crossed her features as she reluctantly tugged the device out of her pocket. Wesley folded his hands together, pacing forward a step.

"Blake was paid to do a very simple job and he failed. He jeopardized the operation in letting the Mask get his phone. Vladimir escaped the sweep and now we have a tremendous liability running around ready to jump at the chance of taking down your father. Blake deserved nothing less of a bullet to the chest." How he could calmly say this with no trace of guilt disturbed her, but arguing with the lackey was pointless and she let it drop without another word. She knew he was right and even appreciated that he went to such lengths of protecting her father, but knowing that someone else would always die in the process made her uneasy.

* * *

 

The car ride home was awkward, filled with silence between her and Wesley and the hammering thought of whether or not she would see the Russian again. She hadn't felt super optimistic after hearing gunfire over the radio, but she refused to accept he was dead. Not now, not after she'd finally embraced her feelings for him. Every part of her, including the intellectual part, the bit that hated unknown variables and gaps in knowledge, squirmed at the idea of not sharing another kiss with Vladimir. If only for the virtue of _knowing_ his condition rather than trying to guess. She couldn't do much to alleviate the chaos consuming her thoughts or the anxiety eating at her. The girl stared dejectedly out the windshield at the road in front of her, listening to the hum of the SUV's engine as Wesley drove her home.


	11. Dressed In Black

She couldn't count the days or weeks that passed after that, nor could she remember much of what she'd done over that time. Each night she slept beside the Russian's jacket as she could only glean comfort from the fragrance of the oaky cologne that lingered in the threads. The scent soothed her to sleep, and she saw that same facial scar and sky blue eyes in every dream--a false reality she'd become far too attached to. Sleeping through the day had become habitual as the actuality of his absence was too agonizing for her to properly adjust to.

Wesley showed his concern for her mental well-being and Fisk chalked it up to the night the Ranskahov had allegedly taken advantage of her. That's what he still believed. There was no benefit in telling him that, in truth, she was miserable because she missed him. That she missed his smoky voice, the thick Russian drawl that sent shivers down her back, and those powerful hands that could have her liquefying in his grasp with the right touch. The intense, blue eyes that told her stories of a grim childhood, and his lips. Those _damn_ lips that felt so warm but so undisciplined against her own, and the butterflies that fluttered in her chest with every Russian word that he sighed into her ear--

The girl jerked upright in bed and fought for breath, putting a hand to her pounding chest. She blinked as the dark room around her registered, eyes adjusting to the lack of light. She exhaled weakly, wishing her sleep hadn't been disrupted. Each dream involving the Ranskahov was like a dose of hope to her, a fix in which she required to keep the painful reality of his death at bay. Perhaps a hot bath would make up for it.

* * *

 

She didn't know how long she had been in the tub but by the time she awoke from a dreamless nap the water had gotten lukewarm and the morning sunlight flooded the room. A series of heavy knocks echoing from the front door elicited an irritated grumble from her. Francis. He hadn't had time to install those damn locks on the door until that morning. Not like it mattered if her apartment was made more secure anyway. With all of the Russians dead and gone, there wasn't much threat left for her father to worry about and she doubted Vladimir had told anyone of her address. But Fisk remained unusually paranoid after learning that her location had been compromised by the blond Ranskahov. He insisted she multiply the security of her home, with the addition of an entire cache of handguns and tasers. If not for her own safety, for his peace of mind.

"I'll be out in a second!" The girl called before stubbornly sinking lower into the water, hoping he would go away. Talking to people had become such a chore to her and she really didn't want to deal with it right now.

She heard the front door open and close. Hell no. The girl pulled herself out of the water and quickly threw on some clothes, ready to rip Francis a new one for entering her apartment without her permission. Drying her hair with a towel, she left the bathroom and marched down the hallway towards the main room.

"Did you not hear me when I said I would be out in--" She halted mid-sentence, freezing by the door when she saw him.

 _Him_.

"Привет, девочка." That familiar smoky accent greeted, and the same enticing cologne hit her senses quicker than his words did. He stepped forward to touch her jawline.

 _The bastard she had grieved over for too long_.

Two tattooed hands came up and gently hooked a heart pendant around her neck.

 _Vladimir's alive. And he's back_.

A kiss was shared between the two and her world of heartache melted into wonderful, welcomed solace when he cooed a delicate string of Russian words against her quivering lips.

 

**"Я люблю тебя."**


End file.
